Deducing
by madsthenerdygirl
Summary: Solving cases is so much better when you're alone… at night… with a bed nearby…


**Title: Deducing**

**Rating: I am a fan fiction whore, okay?**

**Summary: Solving cases is so much better when you're alone… at night… with a bed nearby…**

**Disclaimer: I wish.**

It was official.

If the sexual tension was bad before they were dating, it was hell afterwards.

Apparently, somebody decided that it was bad form to jump your boyfriend in front of other people, even if he's being excruciatingly sexy and reading your mind and finishing your sentences and he has that glint in his eye and your skin is literally melting from the heat and you just want to push him onto your desk and ride him until you both scream.

Okay, so maybe she's thought about it a few times.

But not only was it against protocol, they weren't supposed to be dating in the first place. And shoving your partner against the murder board (and shoving your tongue down his throat) is a pretty good way to let people know you're in a relationship.

That's why this is far better.

They're alone, for one thing, and that in and of itself is miles better. They're also in a house. Owned by Castle. Which means no intruders. If someone rings the doorbell, they can just pretend they don't hear.

So when she sees the light in his eyes and feels his arm around her waist, and he pulls her so that there isn't a single inch of space in between their bodies… oh, she just knows there is no going back.

She can barely remember the case. It can't have been particularly important anyway. What's important is his presence, hot and heavy at her waist, and the guttural need that's shooting through her, making her skin shiver and shake and her whole body seize up with a cold fever.

They're going to act on it this time. There's no one to stop them.

Castle presses her closer, ever closer, and her breath hitches because _oh_. It's not fair, what he does to her.

"Kate…" It's his very breath, slow and quiet, her name the barest of whispers. His eyes burn with heat and his hand is spread, wide, his fingers splayed across her lower back. They press heat into her already-molten body, melting her just a little more. She can't breathe. She is frozen, waiting for him to make the next move because she can't. She is at his mercy. He has mesmerized her, hypnotized her, captivated her, and until he gives the command she can only stay still and absorb the sensations he bombards her with.

He doesn't seem to understand that she can't do anything. He has to take control. She's dangling at the edge of a precipice and she can neither haul herself up nor let herself drop. He has to do it for her.

"Take me." She whispers. How many times has she wanted to say that, in front of a murder board with their faces an inch from each other, his mouth slightly parted and his eyes dancing like the center of a flame? She's longed for this, longed for the fruition of all of their teasing, and the sex has been out of this stratosphere but she's still sick of the unfulfilled feeling she's been getting at work.

It's possible that they work _too_ well together.

And yes, the idea of crime solving being a weird kind of kink has occurred to her. It definitely gets her wet enough to qualify.

His eyes darken, like flame tempering and hardening until they are two blue crystals, hard and cutting and if seeing that change doesn't just make her melt…

He's on her in a fraction of an instant, his mouth surging over hers and she swears his tongue wraps around hers and _pulls_, and his hips are moving against hers, gyrating in counterpoint to her body and oh, oh, _oh_.

Somehow she ends up against the wall. She's glad it's not one with a painting on it because she suspects that they'd knock it loose otherwise. His mouth is arm and wet and open and completely devouring hers, sucking the very life force out of her, and she's feeding it to him without complaint because if this is death it is the most exquisite thing she's ever experience.

Maybe this is why the French say _la petite mort_. She's prepared to die a thousand times tonight.

"What you do to me…" He gasps out, and she groans, her nails digging viciously into his skin as she grips him. He's her life preserver, but he's also the reason she's drowning in these sensations. His hips snap sharply at the pleasurable pain as she digs her fingers in deeper, scrabbling for purchase, scratching him.

He slides one of his hands into her hair and tugs, not painfully, just enough that she knows to tilt her head back, exposing the column of her throat. He latches on and sucks, his lips refusing to leave her skin until he's left a violent purple bruise, and then he moves on to the next spot.

His hips never stop moving the entire time, driving her insane because it's close but not enough. It's never, ever enough.

Somehow she manages to reach down and get his pants undone, and then his fingers slip down and push up her dress and _oh God_ when the fuck did he slip a finger in her… he curls it, sliding in and out, and she can't help but move with it, desperately trying to get more but she knows that one isn't going to be enough. He's teasing her, and he loves it.

"Rick…" She uses his first name because she knows how much it turns him on, how he just devours her when she says it just like that, rolling the r and making the middle breathy and barely there.

He withdraws his finger, and she whimpers but then he's _there_, all of him, slowly pushing in and entering and she trembles with the force of keeping still because it's difficult to get settled on him in this position.

No sooner is he in her than he is moving, forcefully, just on the edge of rough the way she loves it, the way that he knows she loves it. His entire body is pressed against hers, keeping her utterly pinned, and she can't move except to rock with him as he frantically pounds into her and she craves it, laps it up, is addicted to it past the point of no return. She will never be able to give this up.

Her climax doesn't come in one wave, or splinter her like shattering fine spun glass the way it usually does. When it's rough and edgy like this it crashes over her again and again, and she falls and is dashed among the rocks repeatedly, overwhelmed, drowning and gasping for air, and the moment she gets her breath back it envelops her and pulls her under once more. He buries himself in her to the hilt, surrounded by her, drowning in his own way, and the words he murmurs are broken up and nonsensical but they are infused with so much overwhelming love and lust that she understands their meaning if nothing else.

She melts, completely melts, her bones and muscle and blood fusing together and sinking to the ground where she lies, completely covered by him.

They haven't even gotten their clothes off.

"I will never solve a case with you in front of other people again." He declares, his chest heaving as he gets his breath back.

She hums, because she's still beyond words. He practically fucked her into the wall, pounding her into oblivion, and he's ready to talk? Weren't men supposed to take longer to recover?

And then the real world comes rushing back.

"Castle!" Her eyes go wide. "We have to call the Sheriff!"

Oh. Yeah. That.

But once this case is wrapped up, she swears to God, she is dragging him into that big bed by the fireplace and riding him until she can't move a muscle. And if she walks bowlegged for a month, so be it.

**I swear to God, that scene in "Murder, He Wrote" was the sexiest one of this season. If only Beckett didn't have such a responsible streak!**


End file.
